I walk by and your eyes rip my soul apart. They scrutinize every aspect of mine and they devour me the way a carnivore feeds on its prey. I sit and they continue to be fixed upon me and the only thing I want is to bury my face somewhere and never resurface. I feel exposed, like being forced to be bare in the freezing cold. You leave no stone unturned to make me feel conscious about myself and that angers me. When I make an effort to raise my voice, it is drowned in the sea of a million voices that in turn emerge to support you. I understand dear man, I do. I was unfortunate enough to be born without a phallus, so I totally deserve what I happen to be getting. I shall therefore not fight, I shall not complain, I shall only wait for myself to turn into a total scopophobic. I am a woman after all.
But man, I do have a few questions that I would be obliged to get an answer to:
Was it something I wore? You always blame it on my clothes, don’t you? But then the last time I saw you looking at me, I vividly remember wearing a pullover that covered every bit of my body, including most of my wrists. I did not expose any of my pale skin, so what was it that your eyes found so attractive? And then, you looked at me again, that one time when I was wearing an oversized t-shirt which once belonged to my brother. It flaunted none of my curves, not a single one, but you stared. Was it the colour or the sight of the fabric that was turning you on? Or was it the Superman logo on the same that caused you to get aroused? I could gift you a whole range of Superman merchandise if you love that guy to this extent. Just let me know, I would be more than happy. That woman in the Burqa you were leering at: were you giving her that look because you desperately wanted that piece of clothing for yourself? We could all send you several Burqa’s in an array of colours, you only need to ask.
You say it is my body-language that compels you to look at me, that drives you to direct all of your attention towards me. My mannerisms make you perceive me as someone who would not really mind a few eyes X-raying her assets. You say I asked for it. But man, on that bright Sunday morning, I was sitting on a bench in the park and reading Pablo Neruda when I caught you staring at me. Does the fact that I was reading make my body all the more sexually attractive to you? Did my body speak to you in the first place? Did it shout ‘‘I wish I could hold you instead of this book’‘? I am sorry man; I was not enlightened of the same. I shall however keep this in mind from now onward, I promise.
I happened to be in the metro the other day and felt brave enough to, or should I say ignorant enough to enter the general compartment. I was standing there with my hands around a pole to prevent myself from falling into your arms, which I knew not were anticipating to touch me. I wanted to save you the trouble and embarrassment of having to hold an unknown woman in a moving vehicle, but what I did not realize, was the fact that you wanted it so badly. So when you could not have it, your flaming eyes torched me and such was the enormity of your rage that I had to get off at the very next station and get into the women’s compartment of a different metro because I could not stand the heat that you exuded.
I also cannot force myself to forget that one time when I was walking back from college, oblivious to your lurking presence. I was blissfully humming to a Pink Floyd number as the lyrics made me feel like a rebel, when out of nowhere, you showed up right in front of me and began to pleasure yourself. The rebellion that I was planning inside my head vanished suddenly and my feet were involuntarily fixed to the spot. My being had turned into an amalgamation of several emotions: I was appalled, I was disgusted and I was frightened. Yes I was afraid of you from that very moment. But you desired that, didn’t you? I mustered enough courage to run as far as I could from you, but that did not bother you. You now had my picture, a helpless caricature of mine, inside your head and I could not take that away from you. I still cannot.
But tell me man, how would you feel if I stared at you instead? If I fixed my gaze upon your charcoal eyes, on that stubble, on those lips that seem to have darkened because of all that smoking, on your chest: especially the bit that is showing through the first three undone buttons of your shirt, on your slightly protruding stomach, on your perfectly firm behind and of course, on that bulge of yours inside your pants. Would you feel ashamed if I mentally undressed you and let my eyes do all the talking? What would you have to say if I looked at you the way a toddler looks at a doll in a toy-store? How would you feel if I said that it was the way you dressed that made me do it, that you wanted the attention and I was simply giving it to you? Would you feel like a victim? No sir, of course not, you would be enjoying all of it, right? You always do. For this world is your kingdom, dear man. It is all about your power and your glory. I am nothing, nothing at all. Just some rare bird species, right?
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